What My Therapist Said

Perfectionism… you twat

If I can’t do it perfectly, I don’t want to do it at all (which is how perfectionism convinces you it’s helping, right up until it ruins your life). In my own therapy and general self-reflection, I am becoming more and more aware of how perfectionism acted as a driving force in my life, and to be quite honest, I find perfectionism to be a real twat.

It wasn’t that easy though. If I didn’t “do it the right way” based on the expectations of certain others, the consequences were mentally, emotionally, sometimes physically, and almost always spiritually dangerous and painful. That shield of perfectionism, which for me was a protective force, actually almost snuffed me out, but at the time, conditional acceptance was better than zero acceptance (turns out, that’s a terrible long-term business model). Still, the result was years of coping with depression and anxiety, and a loss of Self that made the burden even heavier.

As a therapist, I believe that inner child work is an important part of healing, but I also think that the inner teenager and the early 20s selves get left out of the discussion a lot. That really needs to change. Their stories are just as valuable, just as informative, and those poor beaten up parts need healing just as much as our littlest selves do. No wonder we act like such assholes at that age.

Perfection: The ridiculous standard that we all strive for, despite knowing full well that it doesn’t even exits. GAH! Exist.

While I have learned to take more risks in my life, (hell, I’m out here showing my ass on this blog) my current brand of perfectionism is less about protecting against real threats and more about protecting against perceived threats (from a bruised butt to a bruised ego), but it’s still running the frickin’ show. You know how I know? Because on paper, I look pretty damn accomplished (I do have a PhD after all), but I still feel like it’s not enough. Like I’m not enough. So when my therapist said, “It’s okay to be messy,” this was a paradigm shattering shift for me.

Her words began to vibrate softly in my mind, at first like a whisper, then building into a force that within minutes cracked open something inside me, and out of that crack began to pour a feeling that had been walled up for decades: I was messy, and it felt so damn good.

But There’s MORE (UGH! Can’t I just take a nap and process this in six to eight business days?)

During our next session, my therapist said, “You carry that stupid high bar with you.” The reality of her statement whacked me in the head as if an actual lead bar had been dropped on my skull. Thinking back on it now, that bar was a burden whose weight I had grown so accustomed to that I had forgotten it was constantly dangling over me like a rusted guillotine I’d named “motivation.”

I didn’t put the bar there. It had been placed by outside forces who made me think that it was my idea all along, but I was too young, too naive, too afraid to question the truth that I never wanted the damn thing there in the first place. I guess I’d call it coerced consent, because to maintain the approval (or more likely to avoid punishment) of my adult caregivers, I had to agree to the terms of the “stupid high bar.”

We all know what setting the bar means, but in this context, the “stupid” context, what my therapist was referring to was the unrealistic expectations that were grafted onto my psyche before I could understand what was happening; the arbitrary standards for perfection that I never asked for because they were never mine in the first place. I just wanted to be a kid.

So when my therapist said, “You carry that stupid high bar with you,” I immediately paused the session so I could write down her exact words. I knew I needed to remember precisely what she said because I knew in my soul that it was my liberation. It was the first step toward healing the wounds that stupid bar had inflicted and perpetuated until today – TODAY, when I rip that confounded thing out from above me and chuck it into a fucking lake.